


Ringbearer's Complaint, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Characters - OOC to good purpose, Humor, Other - Freeform, Plot - Good pacing, Writing - Good use of humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo has been reading a good deal of fanfiction lately, and he has a few problems with it. A satire that pokes fun at many different LOTR genres... don't take it too seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ringbearer's Complaint, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Author’s Note: Let me just say that this is not meant to be taken seriously. It was written just for fun, and I’m not trying to criticize anyone. I’m a fan myself of many things I poke fun at in this. So please don’t be offended by any of it. Enjoy!

*******

Hello there. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Frodo Baggins. Yes, _the_ Frodo Baggins. I’m also known as the Ringbearer. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.

Well, the reason I’m writing this is in part because of my good friend Gandalf. As those of you who have actually _read_ the books know, for some time now I have been dwelling in the West with Sam, Bilbo, Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli (read the appendices too, please), Elrond, Galadriel, various and sundry elves, et cetera. This is all well and good. Life here is fantastic. The elves make delicious food, sing and play beautiful music, and treat me like a prince. There are no Dark Lords, Witch-Kings, Balrogs, orcs, and certainly no Rings to worry about. Great stuff.

However, after spending thousands of years here in eternal bliss, things can get a little… boring. So a few years ago, Manwë and the gang decided to order some desktop computers and modems for Internet connection. How can we in the West get the Internet, you say? Don’t ask. When it comes to the mysterious ways of the Valar, there are some things even _I_ don’t want to know.

The computers and modems arrived a month or so later via commercial jet. (No, we would _not_ ask the great eagle lords to transport them! Have you no shame?) I was ecstatic to have some contact with the outside world (other than those bizarre dreams Lórien keeps sending me), and I immediately started doing what I believe is known to your people as "surfing the Web." Gandalf did this also, as did many of the elves and Ainur.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I and my friends are now famous! I had some fun with this, I can assure you. On several occasions I went to chat rooms and introduced myself as Frodo Baggins. I think I managed to make some starry-eyed "teenyboppers" faint dead away, which brought me no small amusement.

Gandalf also immensely enjoyed his fame, and he took advantage of some unique opportunities. One of these had something to do with that book which you know as _The Lord of the Rings_. You see, it did not take us long to get our hands on a couple of copies of the man Tolkien’s rendition of my adventure. I must say that I thought he did a very good job. For writing his book many thousands of years after the actual events, he stayed amazingly close to my own account in the Red Book (though, of course, he wrote in English and not in Westron).

But returning to Gandalf’s mischief, he was once reading the account of his fight with the Balrog. Suddenly his eyes lit up.

"What is it?" I asked, not entirely sure that I wanted to know.

"In this one passage," the wizard answered, "it reads ‘two great wings.’ And in this other passage, it reads ‘ _like_ two great wings.’"

"Much like what I wrote originally, Gandalf," I said. "It was so dark, and we were all so tired after fighting the orcs and crossing the bridge. I was never entirely sure whether it had wings or not. And you’ve never answered my question to that effect, though the Valar know I’ve asked you often enough."

"It was a traumatic experience, and I do not wish to discuss it," he replied, though I swear there was a twinkle in his eye. "Still, I suppose I could stir up something interesting among those silly humans."

And that’s how it began. I suppose you’ve all heard about the infamous "wings versus no wings" debate. Gandalf started most of the trouble, writing as one person and then as another (he has multiple accounts), in much the same way that he spoke as the different trolls near the start of Bilbo’s adventure. Now, of course, the heated discussion has gained enough momentum that Gandalf no longer needs to participate. He still reads the debates, though, clutching his sides in a fit of laughter.

Anyway, we had some wonderful times on the Internet. However, one day I walked in to where Gandalf was sitting in front of a computer, only to see that his face was pale.

"What’s the matter, Gandalf?" I said.

He gestured wordlessly to the white screen, on which was written at the top, "Fanfiction.net." Below it was what I assume was the title of the piece, the author’s pen name, and the description: "A Gandalf/Frodo story. Slash." _Sounds interesting,_ I thought, and began to read.

Needless to say, I was shocked.

No, shocked is perhaps not the right term. Amazed, astonished, stunned, bewildered, flabbergasted, horrified, disgusted, and outraged come a bit closer to what I was feeling.

Gandalf and I looked at each other and, as one, began to sob. We put our arms around each other for comfort, only to draw apart moments later, as we realized with embarrassment what this would look like to someone who actually believed that smutty trash written about us on the screen.

Looking at the ceiling, at the floor, at the paintings on the walls, or anywhere except at each other or at that—that _horrible_ screen, we shuffled our feet nervously. Finally Gandalf cleared his throat and said, "It gets worse. There are… stories about you and Sam. Very many, in fact."

I looked up at him then, and I’m sure my eyes were as round as saucers. "Sam and I?" I whispered. "But… but _why_?"

He gave me a pitying look and answered, "I do not know. This could be a contrivance of the Enemy, accomplishing his will through mortals, though he has been expelled from the circles of the world. He has been known to do such things before. Or it could be that these writers are descendants or partial descendants of orcs, as those foul folk are notorious for their perverted way of thinking. Then again, these writers could be nothing more than harmless young women who simply have nothing better to do with their time. But something in my heart tells me that this is not the case." He frowned heavily.

"Gandalf," I said, "don’t… please don’t tell Sam. I don’t know how he’d react."

He nodded. "Of course not, Frodo."

Sam never has found out. He’s very suspicious of anything having to do with technology—won’t even use a telephone. He just stares at it warily and says, "There’s something mighty odd about this human magic, Mr. Frodo. I don’t trust it." (Yes, he _still_ calls me Mr. Frodo, after all this time. I swear that hobbit gives new meaning to the word "stubborn," though I know the same has been said of me.)

So Sam has never even sat in front of a computer for more than five minutes, let alone read slash fiction. I’m terribly glad. He’d probably fall apart after reading that stuff. I remember that when he first arrived here, Rosie had only been gone for a few months. He missed her so much that he cried himself to sleep every night. I used to crawl in next to him and hug him until he’d stop and—oh, now wait just a minute! It was perfectly innocent, I assure you! Gracious, but the slash-loving fangirls and fanboys must be going wild over that last statement. The Valar help me.

I must admit that after I got over my initial shock, I began reading the slash stories. I skipped the most graphic parts, of course, as my stomach could not handle the stress. I quickly discovered two things. One: writers of slash fiction have no shame. None whatsoever. Two: I am by far the most popular victim of slash.

This is one of the things which I would like to discuss with you today. _Why_ am I so incredibly popular? I realize that I was and am the most adorable member of the Fellowship, but that gives you no reason to all pounce on me like a pack of rabid wargs. Now, I understand that not all slash is written about me. The Legolas-Aragorn pairing seems especially popular. (And when Legolas discovered this fact, let me tell you, I was glad to be a safe distance away from him. He can get a little violent when he’s upset. I caught him muttering some very interesting curse words in Quenya, Sindarin, _and_ Silvan at the time.)

But I am undoubtedly the most popular victim, and the pairings are endlessly creative. Sam, Aragorn, Gandalf, Merry, Legolas, Boromir, Gollum, even Sauron—the list goes on and on. It’s positively revolting. Aragorn was my protector, for heaven’s sake, and he was betrothed to Arwen, the most beautiful she-elf in the world. Gandalf has been like a grandfather to me; I can’t imagine the two of us "in that way." Merry is my cousin—enough said. Legolas… well, I must admit I was tempted—oh, good heavens, did I just say that? I can hear the teenyboppers fainting even now. No, in all seriousness, Legolas is and has always been just a friend. Boromir was always lusting after the Ring. I mean, the man attacked me, for heaven’s sake! How could I possibly be attracted to him? Gollum is just plain disgusting. Do you know where those hands have _been_? Well, I was on the road with him for several weeks, and I still have nightmares. Sauron… all right, now this is just seriously sick and twisted! Let’s not even go there, all right?

You may have noticed that I neglected to mention one person: Sam. Sam is another matter entirely. Now, before you twist that statement into something I certainly didn’t intend, let me explain. Sam started out as being my gardener, but he became my best friend in the whole world. He was there for me when no one else was. We went to hell and back together, and as such we have developed a uniquely close relationship. When you’re gasping for breath on the parched plains of Mordor, with Nazgûl chasing you, an Eye watching you, and the Ring weighing you down, you tend to forget about propriety. So I admit we did hold hands occasionally, and perhaps once or twice I laid my head on his lap—only when I was exhausted. But there was no, I repeat, _no_ kissing, not even on the cheek. At least, none that I remember. I was very disoriented for much of that journey through Mordor. But Sam would have told me if anything had happened… wouldn’t he? Yes, of course he would have. Goodness, but I’ve been reading too much lately.

The slash fiction is bad enough, but there’s something even worse, and it fills my heart with terror: that abomination of nature and reason which is known as a Mary Sue. Now I understand that in this regard, Legolas suffers more than I do. And I pity the poor fellow (though I feel relief that I’m not victimized as much as he in that respect). But I still receive far too many of the detestable creatures for my liking. They range in form from simple hobbit lasses (who often can wield swords—brilliant, people, just brilliant) to beautiful elven princesses. Me and an immortal elf! Who came up with that bright idea? As flattered as I would feel to be found attractive by one of the Fair Folk, I think the height difference would pose a problem. And besides, there aren’t many elves who are willing to give up their immortality for a fellow. During my stay in Middle-Earth, I only knew of one; and she had been claimed by the aforementioned Ranger.

Then there are the infamous self-insertions: girls who, through some freak accident which they _never_ bother to explain, somehow land in Middle-Earth… usually in Legolas’ lap. (I’m trying not to smirk at this mental image; I really am.) Through some incredible magic which, again, is never explained, these ordinary girls somehow become (a)- stunningly beautiful, (b)- incredibly strong, (c)- amazingly wise, or (d)- all of the above (Eru forbid). Then half of us fall in love with the girls, and we spend the better part of the journey fighting amongst ourselves over them, or rescuing them from the orcs or Dark Lord. (As if he didn’t have better things to worry about!) If traveling herself to Middle-Earth doesn’t suit the author’s fancy, she drags me (and the Fellowship) to her world and spends all day cuddling and hugging me like I’m a plushy toy! (Let’s not even discuss what she does all night— _poor_ Legolas.)

So my next question to all of you is this: what is this obsession with my love life? Why do I always have to be paired with someone, be it another male, a hobbit, elf, or one of you? The last time I checked, being a confirmed bachelor was respectable enough. And yet, you people consistently have to give me some sad unrequited romance… or even worse, a steamy requited one.

You’re worse than my family. They were always harping on me about my singleness. "Why haven’t you settled down with a wife yet? When are you going to give us great-nephews and great-nieces? What’s wrong with you?" They even went to the trouble of suggesting several mates—most of them confirmed spinsters themselves, some of them very ugly, all of them at least three years older than I. These are, of course, distant cousins of mine, ladies that my relatives fear will never be married and will therefore rely on the family for financial support until the end of their days.

I remember one such time, about three years before the Quest. I had returned to Brandy Hall for a gathering of my mother’s family. Normally, I preferred these gatherings to those of my father’s family—Lotho and Lobelia were absent, for one thing; and whenever the doting, cheek-pinching aunts became too much to handle, Pippin and Merry would keep me from going insane with their hilarious antics. But this time, after being taken on all the rounds and complimenting every matron on her delicious meal—a necessary step which, if neglected, would have resulted in the terrifying wrath of the normally-complacent women—I was brought before a hobbit who was perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties. She was enormous—taller than I, and _much_ wider in girth, with salt-and-pepper hair, a beak-like nose (that almost reminded me of Gandalf’s, in a way), plain features, and watery brown eyes. She wore her hair in a bun, and her clothes were plain and frumpy—definitely the signs of a spinster. She blinked at me hopefully.

Remember, I was forty-seven at the time. She had to be at _least_ ten years older than I, if not more.

__

Oh, no, I thought to myself. _No. This is_ not _happening._

"Frodo, meet your cousin, Miss Petunia Grubb," came the sickeningly sweet voice of my Aunt Primrose.

I looked about frantically for an escape, but there was none. I was sorely tempted to put on the Ring and vanish out of the situation. Somehow I pasted a smile on my face, held out my hand, and said, "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Grubb."

I watched in morbid fascination as her pink, meaty hand engulfed mine. "N-nice to m-meet you, Mr. Baggins," she stammered, looking embarrassed.

__

So she’s one of those, I thought. _Well, it could be worse. She could be the bossy, overbearing type, or the fluttery, chatty type._

"Petunia came all the way from the Southfarthing," said Aunt Primrose. "She’ll be staying here for a fortnight… or perhaps longer," she added with a wink.

I bit back a sarcastic retort and merely nodded. "That’s nice."

Obviously my response was not what my aunt had wanted. She looked as if she were about to rebuke me, but then simply smiled at Petunia. "Well, I must go see what my other nephews are up to. Frodo, if you will show Petunia around, please." Though she smiled at me with her lips, her eyes shot me a glare that said I had _better_ obey. Then she gracefully swept out of the room, leaving me and the shy, corpulent spinster together.

Said spinster blinked at me again, with those eyes that were quickly beginning to remind me of an owl’s eyes. A fat owl… now _that_ was quite an image.

I took a deep breath. "Right, then. Have you seen the, ah, stables?"

The Fat Owl shook her head, and I said, "Well, then, let’s go." I started walking in that direction, without taking her arm. It was rude of me, I know; but honestly, if _your_ relatives were trying to pair you up with a tongue-tied fat owl who was a dozen years older than you, what would _you_ do?

I made a valiant (and exhausting) attempt at conversation on the way to the stables, but to no avail. The Fat Owl never spoke more than three or four words in succession. I began to wonder if she was truly shy, and not merely stupid.

We _finally_ reached the stables, and I began showing her around, as instructed. Then I heard a voice behind me. "Good day, Frodo."

That voice… it was painfully familiar. I closed my eyes and groaned inwardly. Of all the people to witness my humiliation, why did _he_ have to be the one?

"Good day, Merry," I replied. "May I introduce Miss Fa—ah, Miss Petunia Grubb from the Southfarthing. Miss Grubb, this is my cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck."

"Oi! Merry, what’s going on?" Another curly head popped out from behind a wall.

I silently groaned once more. "And my other cousin, Peregrin Took."

The Fat Owl bobbed her head and smiled shyly at them. I tried not to look at Merry, but I couldn’t help sneaking a glance. His face was set in that peculiar frown of his which always meant that he was trying not to laugh. He was a sharp one, and too quick for his own good. He had caught the title "Miss" and the quite-spinsterish appearance of the Fat Owl and, being fully aware of the family effort to marry me off, had quickly surmised what was going on. I wanted to sink into the ground.

Pippin hadn’t yet figured it out, and was looking back and forth confusedly between Merry’s mirthful face and my blushing one. I glared at Merry, warning him with my eyes not to tell our younger cousin; but he seemed to not notice me. Instead, he gallantly took the Fat Owl’s hand and kissed it, bowing low and saying, "A most beauteous flower indeed. Cousin Frodo is lucky to have a… _friend_ … such as yourself." He straightened and winked at me.

At this point it became clear that now Pippin too understood what was going on, for he suddenly ducked his head and began coughing violently with barely-disguised laughter.

__

That does it, Meriadoc Brandybuck, I thought. _I am going to do to you something so inventively evil that it will make my childhood pranks seem positively angelic._ And I did, too, though I won’t tell you what it was—wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.

I cleared my throat and willed my cheeks to stop burning. "Well, Miss Grubb, if you have seen enough here, we will move on." Not waiting for her to respond, I began marching away. I was tempted to run, but restrained myself for the sake of my dignity. I had not gone far when I heard two distinctive peals of laughter, one very Brandybuck-sounding and one definitely Took-like.

The Fat Owl was (not surprisingly) quiet on the way back. I glanced over at her and saw that her head was bowed. "What, ah, what else would you like to see?" I said.

"What else is there?" she near-whispered.

I began ticking things off with my fingers. "Well, there’s the ballroom, the gardens, the library…"

Now at this point, something very strange happened. A look of interest flickered across the Fat Owl’s face. I stopped short. Had I actually seen that?

"Would you like to see the library?" I asked.

But by now, her face had regained its disinterested passivity; and she answered blandly, "Whatever you wish."

I sighed. I had been right; she really _did_ have no mind of her own. "All right, then. Come along."

The moments were hours; the hours were years, as I spent the entire day as the Fat Owl’s personal host. I was perfectly miserable. At one point, my Aunt Primrose walked by us. She stopped next to me and whispered in my ear, "How’s it going?" winking as she did so.

I turned to her, gave her a glare that would have made Sauron himself take a step back, and whispered, "Family or no, you _owe_ me for this."

She frowned and stepped back, obviously surprised. Shaking her head in a "what’s-the-matter-with-him" way, she walked away.

Supper wasn’t so bad, as I actually got a chance to speak with other members of the family. But the after-supper dancing was pure torture. I was, of course, expected to dance with the Fat Owl for the entire duration; and she was, mind you, taller and much larger than I. If I had a silver coin for every time she stepped on my feet, I could _buy_ myself a new family.

After the dancing, my aunt—who by now I was calling some very un-gentlemanlike names in my head—ushered us outside together. Imagine that: me and a fat owl, together alone, outside at night. In the lower class families this would have been considered scandalous (heaven bless the Gamgees and their common sense!), but unfortunately, the more well-to-do families did not possess the same ideas about morality. (And don’t you _even_ start thinking about that too much. I never did anything improper with anyone, I swear. That’s how this whole problem began, isn’t it?)

So there I was, with all my kin having deserted me. Merry winked at me once more before exiting, and Pippin smothered a giggle. If the names I mentally called my aunt were bad, you should have heard what I was thinking about my cousins. Positively orc-like language, it was.

I was pondering in my head how best to enact my revenge upon them, when suddenly the Fat Owl tripped on the steps. I reached out to catch her, but she was too heavy for me. Instead of stopping her downward movement, I was only caught beneath it; and we ended up falling down the steps and landing on the ground, with me underneath her. I could only hope that I had helped break her fall, as I was certain that I had broken parts of myself.

The Fat Owl’s face was as red as a beet. I’m sure mine was almost as bad. She pushed herself up and righted herself without my help, as I stood up and tried to think of something, anything, to say. I looked down at my feet in embarrassment and noticed—of all things—a book! There was a small book lying next to my feet. Amazed, I picked it up and handed it to her. "Is this yours?" I asked.

She didn’t respond, only stared at it in disbelief for a moment. Then, to my utter confusion, she burst into tears. She walked over to a stone bench and sat down and just began bawling her eyes out.

Normally, this would have inspired in me no other emotion than disgust. I positively abhor women who cry to get their way. But now I was too bewildered to feel very disgusted. I sat down beside her and said, "Whatever is the matter?"

She said nothing, crying even more—if that were possible. I frowned and said more insistently, "Come, now, you must tell me what’s wrong."

Finally she wiped her face on her sleeve and said, "I’m sorry, Mr. Baggins. I’m so sorry."

My confusion doubled. "Why, whatever for?" I asked.

"For letting you down. For letting Aunt Primrose and the whole family down. I tried so hard not to disappoint anyone; but now, I’ve failed you all."

"Failed us! What on earth are you talking about? I’m afraid I don’t understand you."

She sniffled again. Without a thought I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her, which she accepted gratefully. After blowing, she began.

"Everyone," she said, "everyone wants for me to get married. They think I’m a disgrace, not bringing them any children like this. Never mind the fact that I’m nearly old enough to not be able to have children anymore." She paused, and I nodded. "Aunt Primrose wrote me and told me to come here. ‘This is your last chance,’ she said. ‘You must get this one right. No hobbit wants a woman who speaks her mind or thinks too much. You must be on your best behavior.’ And I tried, goodness knows I tried. I know I’m not beautiful—" she looked down in sorrow at her form— "no matter what your joking cousins said. So I tried to be meek and submissive, like a lady should be. But I just can’t do it! And now, well, this book. You’ve seen that I carry books around and read them. You must think it awful of me, but—but I just can’t help it anymore!" She sniffled a little more.

To say I was stunned would be an understatement. I was absolutely blown away. All this time, the Fat Owl— _She has a name. What is it? Grubb, yes, um… Petunia_ —had been as much a victim as I! She hadn’t wanted to be paired off any more than I had, but had been coerced by our overbearing relatives into pretending to be something she wasn’t.

Sudden pity welled up within me. I thought of my behavior, and of my cousins’ behavior at the stables. It must have been painfully clear to Miss Grubb that she was unattractive and unwanted, but she had done her best anyway. And I had dismissed her, had even thought her stupid and mindless! I was ashamed of myself.

She sniffled again and continued. "It isn’t like I ask for charity. I work very hard to provide for myself, so that they don’t have to."

"What… what do you do for a living?" I asked faintly, feeling like I could not be surprised any more.

She gave me a shamefaced look, as if considering, then looked down and laughed softly. "I’m a librarian."

Well, I was wrong about not possessing any more capacity for surprise. "A—a librarian," I whispered.

"Yes. I’ve been a librarian for nearly thirty years now. I love books. I know that a lady isn’t supposed to love books, but I do. Perhaps that’s why no one has ever asked me to marry." She looked down.

Out of curiosity, I looked at the front cover of the book that had fallen out of her dress. It read, _The Mystery of the Stars_ by Jedda Mugwort. I recognized the title: a science book, by a man from Bree. Many of the books I had read were by men or elves; hobbits generally wrote no more than genealogy. So she did not read merely romance novels, but actually "thick" reading material.

"Miss Grubb," I said, and she looked up at me. "Miss Grubb," I continued, "we have both been victims of a grievous misunderstanding." She frowned at me. "You see," I said, "I have no more wish to marry than you do. I’ve been considered an embarrassment of the family for years and years, and they’ve tried just about everything to get me to marry. But trying to pair me with someone who also does not wish to be paired—well, I’m quite astounded, to be honest. I thought better of them than that."

Suddenly I laughed. "Miss Grubb, this is wonderful! Don’t you see? We’re both free now. We can do whatever we want, and no matter what the others say."

"Easy for you, I suppose," she said with a half-smile. "Men always have it easier. But Aunt Primrose is sure to be angry with me for not ‘catching’ you."

"You have my word," I replied solemnly, "to do my best to get you out of trouble. I’ll take all the blame, say that you were wonderful, but that I’m just not interested in marrying. Let me be a gentlehobbit and do my best to get you out of this mess. Goodness knows I haven’t been much of a gentlehobbit today."

"Thank you," she responded with a look of wonder on her face. "And, by the way, you must call me Petunia. Not ‘Miss Grubb’… it sounds far too much like a creature of a certain invertebrate in its larval stage." 

I grinned. "And you must call me Frodo," I said. "And, when it comes to it, Petunia, you needn’t apologize to me for being an avid reader." I laughed again. "No, not at all. Because, you see, I am by far the most notorious reader in this part of the Shire. It’s the embarrassment of the whole Farthing."

Her eyes lit up. It seemed that we were kindred spirits. "Who is your favorite author?" she asked.

"Browntree. And yours?"

"Thistlewool."

"You don’t say! Isn’t he the one who wrote that essay on the sea?"

"The same. He actually wrote several essays about it, not just one. You know, a lot of folk consider him odd, even insane, for his ideas, but I always thought…"

And so it went. We spent the next few hours discussing our favorite books and authors. We discussed science and history, art and philosophy. I swear that I hadn’t had such a good time in ages.

After goodness only knows how long, Petunia yawned. I immediately took her arm and helped her to her feet. "It’s getting late," I said. "You ought to be in bed asleep. Here, let me help you to your room." She smiled at me and thanked me.

The next morning, I was about to eat breakfast when Aunt Primrose entered the room. She looked at me and said nothing, but a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "Out late with Petunia, I see," she said.

I stopped short, frozen with horror. _Oh, no._ Remember what I said about upper-class families not possessing the same ideas of morality? I was positively certain that my aunt thought I had been doing something indecent with Petunia last night. This in itself would not earn me a reprimand; only failing to marry the woman would do so. If word spread, I would _have_ to marry her, or her reputation was shot.

"Aunt Primrose," I said firmly, "I don’t know what ideas you are concocting in your devious head, but you can do away with them right now. Last night, Miss Grubb and I talked—nothing more, nothing less. And I can tell you now that she is a charming lady, and certainly lived up to your expectations of her. But I am, most undoubtedly, not interested. This has nothing to do with Miss Grubb; it only has to do with me and my confirmed bachelorhood. So I will thank you to finally put to rest any ideas of marrying either one of us."

She snorted. "Ridiculous! What could a lady talk about all night with a gentlehobbit?"

"I’m sure I don’t know, Aunt Primrose," I said; "and considering your recent behavior, I don’t think you would know, either." Then I left, before her shocked outrage kicked in and she had a chance to berate me.

Well, _that_ earned me quite a scolding from other members of the family. Imagine, not only turning down a marriage partner, but insulting my aunt! I was ostracized from the family for a good long time, though that did not bother me much. For one thing, it kept them from thinking about scolding Petunia. So I was free to be a confirmed bachelor again; and for a while, I did not have to worry about attending family functions.

And Petunia and I? We were good friends ever since.

But back to the main point. You fanfic writers spend far too much time fantasizing about my love life. This story should have made painfully clear to you the fact that I don’t _have_ a love life. Never have, and never will (by the mercy of Eru). So I will thank you to stop prying into my private affairs, and stop writing Frodo romances. Or, if you don’t entirely stop, at least stop pairing me with ladies who cannot speak three-syllable words.

That is another annoyance of mine. Far too often I am written as possessing the limited vocabulary of an eleven-year-old. People seem to forget that I came from an upper-class family and, as such, was given the best of private tutors as a child. When my parents died and my other relatives decided to discontinue the tutoring, I began teaching myself. I read constantly—five, six, occasionally even seven books a week. (Brandy Hall, thank goodness, possessed an incredible library. It was generally considered as existing only for show, but I made good use of it.) As a result, I possessed a vocabulary superior to even my elders, let alone my peers. And yet, not a day goes by but I see some aspiring fanfic writer put such words in my mouth as "okay" and "yeah." Tolkien neglected to use those words for a reason, you know: in Middle-Earth, _we never spoke like that._ Even Sam and his family never used such words. I’m sorry, but that just annoys me.

I don’t know why I even am bothering to write this. I know that no matter what I say, you will continue to mistreat me and abuse me by writing horrible things. If you stop writing romances, you’ll only write more Frodo-torture fics, especially Cirith Ungol fics. That’s another thing. It seems like the latest craze is "let’s imagine what happened to poor Frodo when he was captured by the orcs." For the love of Eru, _why?_ Why must you bring up such terrible memories? I left the details of that place out of my book for a very good reason. But then Tolkien—the darn genius—decides to try something he calls "suspense." He puts a couple of hundred pages in between when I am captured and when I am rescued, leaving all of you to wonder what on earth exactly _did_ happen to me. Now I admit that in literary terms, this was brilliant; even in the Third Age, a "cliffhanger" was considered excellent writing. But it was downright stupid in that it left far too much time for the reader to suppose and conjecture. And now, your sick and twisted little minds must delight yourselves with horrifying and sometimes gruesome accounts of what happened to me there, when I’d like nothing more than to forget it ever happened.

As if the terrors of what really _did_ happen to me weren’t enough, you must create more. Soon after overcoming the horror of the Mary Sue, I became aware of a type of writing known to speakers of the language as "Frodo h/c." After some research, I realized that this stood for "Frodo hurt/comfort." The writers of this genre are, in a way, not as bad as the Mary Sue writers. At least they do not succumb to poor characterization and hideous plot devices. However, in a way they are the sickest of them all. They seem to take a perverse delight in torturing me endlessly, often bringing me right up to the point of death before letting me recover—and the recovery often takes a very long time, with many relapses before complete healing. These writers will take anything from a simple cold to a snakebite and magnify it until it becomes a life-threatening malady. They love torturing me, and they love "healing" me. I often get the impression from reading their disgusting stories that they would love nothing better than to cuddle me like a teddy bear until "it’s all better." Some of them would even prefer to do this in R-rated ways.

I like to think of myself as an easygoing person. Gandalf always says that "you’re the nicest Ringbearer I’ve ever known;" and considering that he was one himself, I think this is quite a compliment. But you fanfic writers test my patience to the limit. All I wanted when I went away into the West was to forget about the Ring and the Quest, to just relax. And yet you refuse to let me do so. You are constantly libeling my name with your trashy stories, and I want it to stop. Do you have any idea how hard I must work to keep my reputation from being totally shot? I can count on one hand (the left one, in case you’re wondering) the number of hours I spend each day on the Internet, rushing frantically from website to website, trying to keep people from believing the lies that have been told about me. There is that "Frodo failed the Quest" one that I see just about everywhere, of course. Why do people always say that? I’d like to see _them_ try to handle the fate of the world. I did the best I could. But that is just one example among many. It has become an obsession, an international fever, and Peter Jackson’s movies have only made it worse. Stop it already! Stop the insanity! Stop! Stop! Stop!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Do you see what you’ve driven me to do? I just used about a dozen exclamation points in succession. Good heavens, but I’m beginning to write like a Mary Sue author. Eru help me.

This has been your friendly neighborhood chat with Frodo Baggins. I must be leaving you now. I hear Sam calling—don’t _even_ start, you slash fans—and I wouldn’t want him to catch me here. So I bid you adieu, fanfic writers of the world. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand your abuses. But I am sure of one thing. I will do my best to rise above all this and live life to its fullest, "though I do not know the way." _Namarië._


End file.
